


Just Curious

by notjustmom



Series: What if... [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mention of suicide attempts, both in rehab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 10:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: What if... the boys 'meet' when John comments on Sherlock's blog, while recovering from being wounded in Afghanistan, and Sherlock is in rehab...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just something I wanted to play with...

He was bored. Not just the prickly, annoying sort of bored, but the boredom that made him itch for his gun. Not that he could hold his gun at the moment. He couldn't hold a damn thing. But, of course, his genius therapist, his chirpy, cheerful and overly considerate therapist, suggested a week ago that he start a blog. A blog. Whatever fucking for. Nothing ever happened to him. No. That wasn't quite true, not any more. Nothing he could write about. Who wants to hear about the whingeing of a nearly 30 year old surgeon, who could no longer be a surgeon. They all said, "with your kind of injury.... perhaps.... only time will tell..." Bollocks.

He opened a new page, and glared at the hateful blankness of it, the damned blinky thing blinking slowly at him and quickly closed it again. Then did what he usually did after elevenses and before PT, searched for something to keep his mind distracted, and after hours of clicking link after random link found an oddity. "The Science of Deduction" seemed to be the ramblings of a mad scientist going on about cigarette ash. What the hell?

 

"What's the bloody point, Mycroft?"

"If you want to get out of here, you will follow the directives your therapist gives you."

"Don't you have some war to start, or someone to spy on? Why the hell are you even here?"

"Because you managed not to kill yourself. Again."

"And?"

"I won't leave until you promise me you will try."

Sherlock blew a curl from his eyes, got up from the single bed with the scratchy sheets and bowed deeply. "I promise I will try. Just go away."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, tapped his umbrella once and nodded, then turned on his heel and was gone.

Sherlock dropped into his chair, opened his laptop, and to his surprise, found a comment on his latest blog entry.

 

Why ash? - Just Curious

Sherlock grumbled to himself, but it was the first response he'd had to his site, that he had created to please the powers that be, and he figured he might as well put all of his ash data somewhere, just in case...

Why not, Just Curious? - S

Not many people smoke these days. - Just Curious

Exactly. - S

Not following. - JC

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but figured he had nothing else to do. 

If there is ash at a crime scene, then I can easily identify the cigarette, and possibly the perp. - S

Ah. So you - not a policeman. - JC

No. Most definitely not. - S 

Perhaps that was a bit harsh.

Apologies. I sometimes assist the police when they are out of their depth. - S

Which I'm sure is often. - JC

A sense of humour. Interesting.

Yes. - S

So, you're a consultant then. - JC

Yes. - S

Interesting stuff. I'm being dragged off to PT. Looking forward to reading more soon. - JC

Interesting? No one's ever thought ash was interesting. He's just taking the piss. PT. Physical therapy. Hmm. In hospital. Wonder how long it took him to land on my site, must have taken him hours. He has a user name... no. why bother. He was just bored. Sherlock shut his laptop, threw himself onto his bed, and closed his eyes for a moment, then got up again and opened his laptop to begin a new blog entry. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back to the first chapter and changed John's age from nearly 40 to 30, and Sherlock is in his mid-twenties at the beginning of this verse.

Sherlock groaned at the intrusion of sunlight and slowly looked around him, taking in his surroundings. Ah. Right. Rehab again. Some days, most days, he wondered why his tiresome brother even bothered...

 

Molds today? :) - JC

He blinked at the message sent at 3:14 this morning. Molds? He realised he had fallen asleep at his desk after spending hours writing about his experiments, well, if he were honest, failed experiments with mold. His landlady had, in a fit of dusting had ruined weeks of... Sherlock squinted at the message and rolled his eyes. His sole human link to the outside world used those annoying whatnots, he didn't even know the proper term for them.

What is :) ? - S

Ah, good morning. Not that it's a good morning, but that's what people say isn't it? :) is an emoji, supposed to indicate humour, silly arse things, but in this 140 character world... sorry rambling. Not a good day. - JC

Sherlock found himself wanting to know why, he had never been much interested in other people, unless they were corpses or suspects, or those people built like himself, oddballs, misfits... freaks. He was for a lack of a better word, curious.

What happened? - S

Nothing outside of the normal miltary bureaucratic bs and my shoulder hurts and I hate hospitals with a passion. I should have realised in med school, but I was too busy to notice. - JC

But what specifically made it a bad morning? - S

John Watson blinked at the response and sighed. His therapist had just asked him the same question ten minutes ago. He couldn't answer her.

I woke up this morning and didn't want to be here. - JC

Didn't want to be where? - S

I have days when I wish they had just let me bleed out. I don't know why I'm here. - JC

John swore, but he already saw it published, out in the world, to a perfect stranger, and an odd one at that, anonymity had its uses. He even knew the odd stranger's name but he didn't have to -

What's your name, JC? - S

John. - JC

Sherlock. - S

I know. :) - JC

Sorry, habit. Girlfriend, ex-girlfriend loved emojis. Listen, I have to go - can't wait to see what you come up with next. - JC

 

"Damn, I bollocksed that up." Sherlock growled to himself, got up from his chair and walked the three steps to the window. He was one of the lucky ones, he supposed, perk of being brother to the 'British Government,' he actually had a window. He laughed, and the sound startled him. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually laughed out loud, and he had no idea why he had done it now, perhaps it was the idea of his brother meeting... John. Military. Doctor. Ex-girlfriend. "Hold on, John."

 

John looked out the window, sunny for a change. He sighed and pulled up his empty blog again, opened a new page and tried to think of a title. After a few minutes, he grinned to himself and typed, "Not Such a Terrible Morning." It was a start, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mention of suicide attempt.

"What are you smiling about?" 

"Hmmm?"

"I've known you, let's see, a month now, and I've never seen you smile before. So -"

John looked up from his laptop and at his therapist. A resident. Not that he minded being a guinea pig, and Bart's was a teaching hospital, but she was so young. What could she possibly know? "I didn't even realise I was smiling. Sorry. I'll stop." He closed his laptop and narrowed his eyes at her. He would have crossed his arms if he had two arms that worked.

"Don't stop on my account."

"Didn't we already have a session this morning?" 

"Yes. I'm just trying to find a way to help you."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"You're in this ward. Do you remember why?"

John rolled his eyes, but nodded.

"Why pills?"

"Well, not many options were open to ending my life, other than saving up my sleeping pills seeing as I have only one hand that works?"

"Good." 

"Good?"

"You're angry."

"Very observant, 'Doctor.'" 

"Can you tell me why you are angry?"

John laughed, and he couldn't stop.

 

Sherlock paced in his room. Ash, molds... what else... he wished he had a couple of his journals, there must be something - well, there was that thing with - no, that might be too much. Hmmm... Billy. But would that be too weird? He had to write something. He flopped back onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. I've probably scared him off anyway, he was just bored and I made it into a bloody therapy session. Hell.

 

7 July 2009

I don't know who Billy was. All I know is that at one point he was alive, and now he isn't. Some days, I sit and hold the skull in my hands and try to write his life story, what did he do? Was he a manual labourer? Perhaps he was an artist? Or a poet? Did he ever fall in love, get married? Did he die in war, or was a it a simple illness that went untreated? I found him in an antique store - in the odds and ends, the shop owner gave him to me - said he gave him the creeps, but couldn't throw him away, so I took him home and put him on my mantle. He's not a great conversationalist, but he's the best listener I've ever met. Never interrupts me. Some days I think that's the highest compliment I can offer. Not many people know how to listen.

He reread what he had written, and closed his eyes as he hit publish. It was all he could give to John, his - what - what was John? John was just - he was a mystery. A mystery that could be solved. And he realized at that moment that he needed to solve the puzzle that John unwittingly offered to him.

 

"Are you done?"

John caught his breath and nodded. "Yes. Sorry. I just realised I apologise too much. Perhaps you can help with that. Tomorrow. Will you please close the blinds so I can try to sleep?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and a bit of angst...

"Damndamndamn!" John struggled to open his eyes and tried to catch his breath. "Hospital. In hospital. Fuck." He didn't want the night nurse to come in and offer him her puppy eyes and fluffing of his pillow. He just wanted to be left alone. No. That wasn't true. He wanted to talk to someone who understood. He reached over for his laptop and opened it up. A new post already. He must not have any cases on...

 

7 July 2009  
I don't know who Billy was. All I know is that at one point he was alive, and now he isn't. Some days, I sit and hold the skull in my hands and try to write his life story, what did he do? Was he a manual labourer? Perhaps he was an artist? Or a poet? Did he ever fall in love, get married? Did he die in war, or was a it a simple illness that went untreated? I found him in an antique store - in the odds and ends, the shop owner gave him to me - said he gave him the creeps, but couldn't throw him away, so I took him home and put him on my mantle. He's not a great conversationalist, but he's the best listener I've ever met. Never interrupts me. Some days I think that's the highest compliment I can offer. Not many people know how to listen.

 

John sat there and reread the post three times. It was an offering. He knew - at least it seemed like Sherlock understood something that most people don't. Sherlock felt that he had trespassed yesterday and in his own way, was trying to give him back something. It wasn't an apology, it was a gift. 

 

I was wounded on my second tour in Afghanistan. Hit in the leg, first, I was patching someone up. Didn't even know I'd been shot til later - adrenaline does weird shit to you in the field. Then hit in the shoulder. I should have died. I did die, but they got me back, I didn't see any white lights, just darkness. No voices, no pearly gates, just nothing. I trained to be a surgeon. Finished my residency, had job offers, but my then girlfriend told me she'd been cheating on me with my best, ex-best friend, I was too busy for her. So, I joined up. I turn 30 tomorrow, and I just woke up screaming from a nightmare, like a child. So, most mornings are pretty much shit. - JC

He blew out the breath he had been holding, and finally felt the tears that were streaming down his face, as he published his comment. Great. Now he's going to think I'm pathetic. Stupid. I can't even roll over properly. Fuck.

 

Sherlock glared at the circle of people he was supposed to open up to, and snorted.

"You have something to offer to the group, Sherlock?" 

"No."

"Can you tell us why you are here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but cleared his throat. "I'm here because, as my brother so concisely put it recently, "you managed not to kill yourself again." He allowed himself a tiny smirk, thinking his impression was pretty dead on.

"And how did that make you feel?"

Sherlock closed his mouth tightly, then gazed at the woman who was leading the group. He had known people like her before, an addict in recovery herself, was a volunteer, not even paid to sit here and listen to the rubbish that was generated here. He considered letting her have it, but that would be unnecessarily cruel, and he had to admit, "it stung a bit."

"Why, do you think? Why did it sting? Do you care what he thinks?"

"He's my brother."

"And? You care what he thinks just because he's your brother? So what?"

Before he could stop himself, he mumbled out, "he's the only family I have left." He got up and walked out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another rough chapter - we'll get to the fluff... promise

He could go outside if he wished, he could take a walk around the 'grounds' if he wished. He didn't wish. He couldn't remember the last time he wished for anything. Wishes were... he sighed as he opened his laptop and found John's latest message.

 

I was wounded on my second tour in Afghanistan. Hit in the leg, first, I was patching someone up. Didn't even know I'd been shot til later - adrenaline does weird shit to you in the field. Then hit in the shoulder. I should have died. I did die, but they got me back, I didn't see any white lights, just darkness. No voices, no pearly gates, just nothing. I trained to be a surgeon. Finished my residency, had job offers, but my then girlfriend told me she'd been cheating on me with my best, ex-best friend, I was too busy for her. So, I joined up. I turn 30 tomorrow, and I just woke up screaming from a nightmare, like a child. So, most mornings are pretty much shit. - JC

 

John had sent it hours ago. Sherlock hoped - hoping now - he rolled his eyes, and tried to figure out what to say. He spent most of his life in complete silence or babbling nonstop. There was very little in-between, and he wasn't equipped to deal with - he wasn't sure honesty would work, but it was all he had.

 

Just finished my required group session. It wasn't over. I walked out. I only go because I have to in order to get out of here. This is my fourth rehab facility in the last five years. For my own good, my brother keeps saying - not that he knows me. He's 'concerned.' Concerned enough to bug my flat when I'm actually living there. Of course there are ways to avoid his surveillance, and he knows it. He thinks if he goes through the motions he can convince himself he's done enough. Two months ago, I tried to OD, no, I tried to kill myself. And I suppose if I was serious enough, I have access to other methods, but people keep finding me. This time it was Donovan. Fitting somehow. She hates me, and the feeling is mutual. Lestrade couldn't reach me, so he sent his underling to look for me - I was so close this time. They told me if she had been another few minutes, I would have been gone. No one would have missed me. - S

 

John nodded to the orderly who had helped him back into bed after another pointless session of PT. He was exhausted and hungry, but the tray placed in front of him was ridiculous. Just ridiculous. He stared out the window for a moment, still beautiful outside. Seemed a bit unfair, honestly. He groaned as he pushed the tray away and moved to pick up his laptop, and discovered Sherlock's response.

 

I would have. I know, it's moronic, because we hadn't met yet. Technically we still haven't met, but, I feel like I know you. It's ridiculous, because I try to make sure I don't. Know anyone. Not sure if that makes sense. It's easier not to get too invested in people, because they always leave, or find some way to disappoint me. So, I leave first, usually. But this time, I thought, I believed what I had was real. But I wasn't paying attention. Perhaps this is my penance for not paying attention. I don't know. I do know, if I had known you before, I would miss you. How much more time do you have to serve? - John

 

Sherlock snorted. John was right though, he was in a prison of his own making. Mostly. He realised he would have missed John, too. He had never really missed anyone. His parents, yes, he did miss them in a way, but he had been young enough that they hadn't left their mark on him. Mycroft missed them - he knew that, he knew he only kept tabs on him from some sense of familial duty, because it was what his parents would have expected or demanded of him.

 

Two more months. - Sherlock

 

Maybe - John typed. Then deleted it. He needed to be honest with Sherlock, even though they weren't - they hadn't even met, and yet...

 

I almost invited you to come visit me, but you won't want to do that, I don't even know if it's allowed. Last month, I saved up my sleeping pills and did a good job of nearly not waking up permanently. I think I owe you that much. I realise you may not want to get involved with someone who is, well, to be frank, as fucked up as I am. I understand if you don't want to continue our conversation. I want to thank you for 'listening,' it's been a very long time since I felt like someone heard me. - John


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the required appearance of 'Big Brother'...

"Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"How the hell did you dig up my middle name?" John snarled and muted the match he was watching. "And who the hell are you?"

"Let's just say I'm an interested party." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, and leaned a bit on his umbrella.

"The brother. His brother. Of course, you've been reading his blog. Of course you have. And you came to see just how -"

"You got him to talk at group. He's been there for two months, sat in that room for two hours every day, and never made a sound until two days ago. And yet, he started talking after 'knowing' you -"

"He doesn't know me."

"Dr. Watson,"

"I'm no longer a doctor."

"You were the best resident of your class, until sentiment -"

"Until my girlfriend cheated with my best friend and I chose to serve my country."

"What are your intentions?"

"My intentions?" John chuckled. "My intentions are none of your business."

"My brother is my business."

"Did he send you?" 

"No, my brother does not know I'm here."

"Why are you bothering?"

Mycroft studied the man in the bed carefully. Even essentially immobilised by his injuries, he had a strength to him that he found intriguing. "If my brother is allowed to visit you, would you welcome the chance to meet him, if I am able to arrange it?"

"Why would you make such an offer?" John glared at him. "You know -"

"I know enough. I know you have managed to give my brother something he's never had before." 

"And what would that be, exactly?" John asked quietly.

"A reason to get clean. And hope. I always thought hope was something best left to fairy tales. But, it appears my brother has hopes of being important to someone. And it appears that someone is you. I never understood - ah. It doesn't matter. Are you interested or not?"

John looked at the man next to him. "I don't want to add to his - he has his own issues, he doesn't need to worry about mine."

"That's exactly where you are wrong, Dr. Watson. For the first time in his life, he cares about the well-being of another, ahead of his own. As far as I can tell without speaking to him, he cares for you very much already. If you wish to end the 'conversation' as you so elegantly put it yesterday, that can be arranged, but I believe it would be a mistake for both of you."

John chuckled again. "You are the 'powers that be' aren't you?"

"In some circles, yes, I do carry some clout. I ask once more, Dr. Watson, are you interested in meeting my brother or not?"

John sighed and nodded. "I am, but only if he wants to meet me. If he doesn't, I understand."

"Very well. You will find contact information for him on your phone."

"I don't have a phone."

"You do now."

John looked over at his bedside table and there was indeed a brand new phone sitting there. He turned to thank his visitor but found he had disappeared as quietly as he had arrived. "Damn."

 

Sherlock sighed without turning his head. "What did you do?"

"I made inquiries on your behalf."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"No. But your behaviour in the last couple of days has made me reconsider things."

"What things?"

"You need someone. And not just anyone, you need someone who is, let us say -"

"Damaged?" Mycroft placed a phone next to his brother's hand and stepped back into the shadows.

"I was going to say, 'uniquely qualified to understand you,' but if you wish, 'damaged' is more concise, and accurate, I suppose. His contact information is there if you wish to talk to him. I know you prefer to text, however -"

"Good evening, Mycroft."

"Sherlock."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock picked up the phone and rolled his eyes. Brand new model. Of course. He opened the contact list to find one name listed. "John." He laid it back down carefully and tried to ignore it. He checked his website again, just to be sure John hadn't sent another message, then decided to go to the cafeteria and eat something. He turned to leave the room, but paused and went back to retrieve his phone, just in case. "Sentiment?" He shook his head at himself, acting like - like what? A lovesick schoolboy. "Damn."

 

John glared at the phone in his hand. Big Brother had spared no expense. Brand new phone. He'd seen adverts for this model. All the bells and fucking whistles. He opened his contact information to see Sherlock's name and - how the hell? His sister was there as well. He hadn't even told Sherlock he had a sister. Damn. He closed his eyes and managed to make the bloody thing work. He suddenly missed his flip phone.

 

"Hello?"

"Harry?"

"John?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Where are you?"

"In hospital."

"What, did you go and get yerself shot? I always told you -"

"Yeah -"

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I -"

"No, it's - it's fine."

"I - do you want me to tell Mum? I can - do you want me to visit, or something?"

Same old Harry. John rolled his eyes. "No, it's best - I'm fine, really. Don't bother telling her."

"I'm sorry, John -"

"Yeah, listen, I have to go -"

"Right - maybe I'll -"

"Sure. Bye, Harry." He ended the call and wondered what he had been thinking. Hope. Hope is a dangerous thing.

 

Sherlock managed to choke down half a sandwich and a cup of the worst coffee he'd ever had. He pulled out his phone again. No calls. To be fair to John, he hadn't responded to his last message. And Mycroft had obviously made an appearance, that would put anyone off. He got up from the table and binned the uneaten half of his dinner and the empty paper cup. He nodded at the woman who ran the group sessions, and she smiled back at him, a bit of surprise in her eyes. He shrugged and left the cafeteria, and slowly made his way back to his room.

 

Sorry I haven't written back. I don't normally like talking on the phone, but would you mind if I called you? I'd like to hear what you sound like. - Sherlock

 

John grinned at the message, then sighed as he looked at the time.

 

I'd like that very much, if you aren't busy. - John

I do have to count the cracks in the ceiling again tonight, but I suppose I can squeeze you in. - Sherlock

I knew you were a smart-arse. Give me fifteen minutes? - John

Need time to fix your hair? - Sherlock

No. Sponge bath. Yay. - John

I'm sorry. - Sherlock

No, it's fine. Don't apologise. Needs must. I'll call you when it's done, yeah? - John

Of course. - Sherlock

 

Sherlock realised how long fifteen minutes were when one watched a clock. Even a digital one. And then his phone buzzed. It had been so long since he had heard his ringtone, that it startled him for a moment. Of course his brother knew which ringtone he'd had on his old phone. 

"Hello?"

"Sherlock?"

"Who else would it be?" John laughed and something broke in him. He felt something actually snap. He didn't know what it was, but it made his breath catch for a moment, then he remembered he knew how to breathe without thinking about it. "Yeah, John. It's me."

"I was going to ask how you were - and then I remembered who I was talking to."

Sherlock snorted and cleared his throat. "How was your birthday?"

"Terrific - has anyone ever told you that you have a sexy voice?"

"That bad, hmm?"

"Yeah, lime jello and the telly went on the fritz. Seriously, you have a beautiful voice."

Sherlock felt his face get hot, and found himself unable to find something to say. This is exactly why he preferred to -

"So, your brother - he's a bit full of himself."

Sherlock laughed. "Yeah, just a bit."

"How - never mind. Not sure I want to know."

"I stopped asking years ago."

There was a bit of silence, then John cleared his throat. "Do you - I - it's ridiculous - but -"

"I miss you."

"Yeah. I miss you, too."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months later...

Sherlock was all packed up. It seemed so little, one small suitcase, his laptop and his coat. Four months of his life. And he was nearly on his way to -

"Hey."

He looked up to see Starr standing in his doorway. "Hey."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. Terrified actually."

"Of what? The big, bad world?"

"That, and what if -"

"He's going to love you."

"You don't know that."

"Idiot. I've seen your face when you are on the phone with him. You get all glowy."

"That's not even a word," Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

"I don't care, you do. Your eyes turn green, and you can't stop smiling when he's talking to you. He will love you, probably already does."

"But -"

"Enough." She looked down at her beeper. "Your ride's here. I don't wanna see you back here. Ever. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded and offered her his hand. "Thank you, for everything."

She took his hand and held it tightly. "You did the heavy lifting, I was just there to push you up the hill a bit when you needed it. You got this, Holmes, now, go."

He grinned at her and went.

 

John fussed with his hair. "I knew I should have had it cut yesterday."

"He's not going to care." Dr. Lincoln sighed as she watched him from the doorway.

"How do you know?" John narrowed his eyes at her. "And the jumper? Does it make me look old?"

"No."

"Okay. Remember, if I push the call button -"

"You won't."

"But, if I do..."

"John Watson...."

"Excuse me? Am I in the right place? I was told this was John Watson's room - ah - you must be Dr. Lincoln, I'm Sherlock."

The usually unflappable resident found she could only nod, and mumble, "I've got rounds..." as she turned away and walked down the hallway as if in a trance.

"Hello. I brought flowers, and chocolate, just in case you're allergic to flowers. or if you just prefer chocolate, I can give the flowers to another room - I'm an idiot who can't stop talking, I only do this when I'm nervous or if I'm telling Lestrade's idiots that they're idiots, and since I'm not at a crime scene, it must be that I'm nervous. Damn. You look like your voice. Sorry - I mean, you are exactly what I imagined you'd be like. I - can I try again? Please?"

"Sherlock. Breathe."

"Right. I know how to do that."

"It's just me." John grinned at him.

"No." Sherlock shook his head.

"No, what?" John searched Sherlock's face and waited.

Sherlock strode into the room, dropped the flowers and box of chocolates on the table, then without missing a beat, walked over to John, held his face gently in his steady hands and whispered, "you could never be 'just' anything," then kissed him softly before he pulled away, so he could look him in the eyes. "Hello, John."

"Hello, Sherlock." John reached his right hand into dark curls and sighed as he pulled him close again. "I've missed you."

"Missed you, too."


End file.
